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Saturday, 26 September 2015

Bayley and Sasha

This is an essay about professional
wrestling, so if that ain't your bag, or you're not curious, or if you're rolling your eyes, then there's no need for you to stick around. In the words
of Malcolm Tucker, “Off you fuck”. The rest of you, who love,
understand, or at least don't pre-judge one of Americas great
contemporary theatrical forms, this is for you.

Wrestling is about moments.

Its theatre and its reality and sometimes,
when the stars align, something happens that is both theatre and real life simultaneously. This happens in no other artform, except occasionally
perhaps circus, and its something very special indeed. There are
moments every wrestling fan will tell you about. Foley soaring off
the top of the cell. Jericho first arriving on Monday night and being
unleashed on The Rock. Mick telling Hunter that he can't beat him,
“But he knows a man who can”, before transforming before our very
eyes into the feared Cactus Jack. Shawn saying “I'm sorry. I love
you” before superkicking Ric into retirement. The Undertaker's
bell. If you're a fan, you're smiling right now. Moments, you know
what I mean?

Sometimes wrestling is also good at
stories, but sometimes, just like any soap opera (which, of

course,
is to some extent what it is), sometimes the plotlines inspire more eyerolls than jaw-drops. And often it was the female wrestlers that got the crappiest deal.

Wrestling doesn't have the most
sparkling track record when it comes to depictions of women. WWE,
throughout its most popular and financially successful period, even
with talented and beloved performers like Trish Stratus and Lita
failed dismally much of the time. Plots centered around bitchiness,
fighting over the affections of men, and – even in the lycra-heavy
world of wrestling – wearing as little as is humanly possible.
There were matches held in giant bowls of pudding, matches where the
winner was the first person to yank off the dress of her opponent,
and occasionally, inexplicably, just plain old swimsuit beauty
contests held in the ring. On a wrestling show. It felt like the
scripts were being written by the kind of guy who'd step in front of
a woman on the street and block her path to say hi, and then when she
ignored him, would berate her for being a stuck-up cow. Women were
all either sluts, bitches or frigid. It was insulting to the
performers and to the audience, and it made being a wrestling fan
really difficult for a lot of people. Fast forward a decade though,
and it looks like we might be entering a little golden age, which
brings us to Bayley and Sasha.

NXT is the WWE wrestling brand that
showcases the new talent being groomed for big league stardom.
Developmental, they call it. But in an odd twist, it's become the far
better show for wrestling fans to watch. It's short, light on its
feet, smart, and is chock full of hungry talented performers who
relish every opportunity to get in front of an audience and impress.
I adore it. One of the things that they've been working hard on
doing, is reinvigorating womens wrestling. They've been bringing in
some of the best talent from the independent circuit, and having them
train with Sara Del Ray, one of the best female workers on the
circuit for years. And it's working.

Bayley is the new champ, and she's
got quite the ground-breaking character. In an industry where
performers play demons, dead men, supermodels, rock stars, superheroes
and much more, Bayley is...nice. I'm not sure it's ever been tried
before. She's a scrappy underdog. Positive. Glad to be there. Full of
high-fives and smiles. Goddamn it, her t-shirt says “I'm a hugger”.
And people LOVE her. More importantly, a whole new set of people love her - young girls - the very audience the previous depictions of women would have repulsed.

Her current nemesis, Sasha Banks is a
whole different deal. Dripping in gold, styled up the wazoo,
sunglasses on, and swagger firmly activated. She holds up her hands
on the way to the ring so you can read her full-knuckle rings that
say “legit boss” - and indeed, she used to be the boss, the
champ, until a couple of weeks ago, when Bailey won it from her.

On a recent NXT show, Bayley had just
had a match. She was celebrating in the ring, the crowd showing their
love, and Bayley riding the cheers. She took the microphone and
started to thank them, and as soon as she started talking, Sasha's
music hits, and here she comes. Now, of course, this is a traditional
piece of heel behaviour – crash the good guys party and spoil it.
Be a bad loser. But here they did it everso slightly, and
beautifully, different.

“I didn't come here to belittle you,
or berate you”, says Sasha. Wait, what? You're the bad guy. That's
exactly what we expect you to do. “I came out here to congratulate
you”. This is important. There's no bitchiness here, no personal
hate. These are women acting like athletes at the top of their game
rather than knock-off “Real housewives”, and it's refreshing. It
encourages the audience to admire them both, even if we have a
favourite. Sasha says that everyone's been saying that at the last
show, they had the best match – and the crowd chant as one, “Yes
you did”. She says that people have told her it was the greatest
womens match the company has ever seen (Which might genuinely be
true, it was a barn burner), and then there's a fleeting moment when
she looks at Bayley, looks around at the crowd as they chant “Match
of the year”, and she visibly nearly cries. It's amazing. Remember
when I said how wrestling is best when its the theatre and reality clash together? There it is.

Then she gathers herself and tells
Bayley that last time she was better for only three seconds – a
clever way of referring to the match-winning three-count pinfall –
but now she needs to prove that she is better. Again, this is
important. They're not going to fight because of some kind of
playground feud. They're not fighting over a boy, or over who said
what to who. They're fighting because they're professional fighters
vying over a belt that tells the world who the best athlete is. It's
simple, empowering, and with performers this good, totally
compelling.

Then we're at the final act. Matchmaker
William Regal comes out to join them, with a shit-eating grin, and a
glint in his eye bright enough to power the Blackpool illuminations.
He grants their wish, and tells them that their match will headline
the next big show. The first time a womens match has ever – as far
as I know – main-evented a big American wrestling show. It's
payback for bringing the house down last time, and the crowd love it
and lose it.

Bayley and Sasha, the crowd chanting
“Holy shit!”, slowly take it in. They look each other in the
eyes, grins spread across their faces, and they shake hands. And
everyone knows this is going to be good. Everyone understands what it
means. And there's your moment.